Aixle had also been quite strange, even by Fae standards.
He was the oldest Fae Merrick had ever met. There were rumors he’d even fought the gods all those years ago, and given all the other whispers of his adventures and the battles he’d led for the Rantziers, Merrick didn’t blame the male for being odd. Merrick had seen too much war not to know how it could warp and change and destroy a person.
“Is he dangerous?” Lessia whispered, her fingers brushing the hilts of the two daggers hanging by her waist.
Merrick glared at the blade with amber stones—the one that had killed her—as he responded, “Yes. He is not only a strong mind wielder, but the best fighter I’ve ever seen. He’s to be both feared and respected.”
I’m glad you think so highly of me still, Guardian of Death.
The voice rumbled through Merrick, and he could tellfrom how her eyes flickered, shining their golden light on the horse’s neck, that Lessia was fighting the mind invading her own.
“It’s all right,” Merrick whispered when Lessia huffed a short breath, her fingers curling. “He won’t hurt us. He just wants to get to know you.”
She is strong, Merrick.Aixle’s voice was familiar—the way his mind wrapped around his own, not the way Raine clawed his way in, but gently—almost welcoming.
Aixle had never used his gift to force anyone on his own side to do anything they didn’t want to. No, he used it to understand—to foresee actions, give silent instructions, and make sense of the people and the world around him. Somehow, people had allowed it. Had let Aixle’s strange mind feel their own, perhaps not fearing whatever he’d find out, as he never spoke out loud, as he never used the information to punish anyone.
It had made his company lethal in war.
Aixle had known exactly where to place his soldiers, and while he himself had always fought, he’d kept track, making sure those who needed a break got one and those who didn’t were at the forefront.
But she is also weak. You both are weakening.There was a hint of worry lacing the words.I can feel it in your every thought, Merrick Morshold.
Merrick didn’t respond. In the beginning, he’d tried to talk back to Aixle—had tried to get him to respond to direct questions—but that wasn’t how the Fae worked. So Merrick let his thoughts wander back to the horrible moment Lessia took her last wheezing breath. Then to how he’d broken the veil, or whatever he’d fought for centuries to keep up. Then to the souls around him.
His parents.
Thissian.
So it’s true, after all.A humming echoed in Merrick’s mind, as if Aixle was debating himself.Come inside. We must talk.
“Are you okay?” Merrick slid off the horse, offering a blanched Lessia his hand.
She nodded as she accepted his help, even though he could feel that she was anything but.
“He knew my father,” Lessia said softly. “He knew him since he was a child. And he knew of me and Frelina. He’s known the whole time what my father hid from his brother, but he didn’t say anything.”
Merrick pulled her to him when she swayed as her feet landed on the ground. “He does not have any interest in gossip or spying. I think he respects his gift enough not to share what he learns.”
Lessia’s eyes moved to the closed door, and Merrick continued. “Don’t… don’t stare when we get in there. It makes him uncomfortable.”
A small frown appeared between her golden brows, but she bowed her head, and Merrick didn’t want to waste any time, so after securing her hand in his, he led the way to the door. He didn’t bother knocking, only pressed the squealing handle until the door swung open, revealing a living space as run down as the wood encasing it.
A ripped dark couch, its seats sunken and used, stood before a crackling fire, and by its side was a single chair where Aixle sat, his face turned away from them. A rug with threads sticking out every few feet decorated the sooty floor, and that was it, apart from a small teapot and a few broken plates piled high beside the chair.
Come sit.Aixle waved with a white hand toward thecouch, and Merrick drew a breath of outside air before stepping over the threshold, holding Lessia close as he led the way to the couch.
He let her sit down first, and then Merrick folded his legs, pretending not to notice how the couch screamed under his weight, shifting so much he worried for a second that it would break.
When Aixle turned his head their way, Lessia—to her credit—didn’t move.
Only the quick squeeze of his fingers told Merrick she realized why he’d warned her.
Aixle’s eyes were as pale as the skin on his hands, white as snow. The Fae had apparently been blinded at birth, but that hadn’t stopped him from becoming one of the most—if notthemost—feared Fae in all Vastala.
His hair lacked color as well, and the clothing he wore—the white shirt and breeches—did little to counter the nickname the children had whispered when he wasn’t around: the Wraith.
Aixle’s lips twitched as Merrick remembered.Perhaps that is why we got along so well. The Wraith and the Death Whisperer.
